


"be done with the rest"

by ships_to_sail



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Peaches - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: “If I could have him like this in my dreams every night of my life, I'd stake my entire life on dreams and be done with the rest.”Emotions in primary colors, Christmas day baking and sugar-sweet peaches.





	"be done with the rest"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Basic_instinct40](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basic_instinct40/gifts).



> for Basic_instinct40): my only apology is that this isn't longer, and that nothing really happens. I only hope you can love our boys being, well, our boys for just a little bit longer.

Elio.

Elio.

Elio.

Almost a decade later, and Elio still wakes up with his own name on his lips, and Oliver’s voice in his ears. He licks his lips in the flattening grey of the early morning and swears it still tastes of salt and peaches. He stretches his arms and the frigid bite of New York winter forces him to recoil beneath the sheets. No matter how many times it happens like this, he is caught unaware of how unrelentingly the cold presses forward into even the memories of the blazing Italian sun.

Trapped beneath the sheets, pressing himself into the fleeting traces of his own body's heat, he squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the rush of his own breath in and out of his lungs, feels the gentle, repetitive squeeze of his heart inside his chest. He feels the heavy press of thumbs against his hips and runs his fingers gently over the phantom of a bruise that used to linger there. He swallows thickly and imagines it's Oliver in his mouth, filling his throat, the familiar weight of him on Elio’s tongue. He’s hard before it goes further, and he can't help what happens next any more than Oliver can.

His hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxer-briefs, red in memory of the most volatile moods, the mode Elio most remembers mattering in the early days of wanting Oliver to look at him with longing. He lets his mind wander to those days in the middle of 1983, to the long golden lines of Oliver’s body as he pulled himself out of the pool, his shoulders and biceps rippling beneath the cascade of water in a way that sucked all the air out the world. His hand caresses his body as Elio remembers the prick of grass in the meadow by the tree, the feeling of his tongue as it scraped up and over Oliver’s Adam’s apple. 

He squeezes himself at the base and it’s a new set of memories that break through the surface - Elio spread out before Oliver like they’d been in Rome, only they’re not in Rome, they’re in Southern California and he’s flown Elio out to meet him after his divorce, taken advantage of his early finals to lay bare a new set of truths before stripping him down and taking him as hungrily and greedily as he ever had in Crema. Elio shakes beneath him and shouts his name into the pillow until Oliver’s hand covers his mouth and he remembers, remembers what he’s never forgotten and his own name fills his mouth. Oliver comes inside him, and even through the condom and the years Elio can feel it, feel the warmth and the fullness that settles within him as he tips over the edge and turns his body into the cool winter sheets of the now.

Letting his breath settle, dancing along the knife’s edge of sleep, he can hear the first clatter of noises rising from the kitchen below him. With a small groan meant only for himself, Elio pulls himself out of the bed and wipes himself on the sheets, stripping them from the bed and tossing them in the corner of the room for later washing. Slipping on a pair of pajamas and an old college sweatshirt that belong to Oliver, he feels himself swallowed in Oliver’s size, in the length of his legs and the wrap of his hips, still too large despite the weight the years have attempted to add. 

He make my way down the stairs as lightly as possible, hoping against hope to catch Oliver in a private moment. After all the years they spent apart, he finds himself thirsty for the small moments, for the flashes of a private self he feared he’d never get the chance to see. Elio tiptoes past the wall full of pictures, framed shots of his parents, Mafalda and Enquise frowning at each other from opposite sides of the apricot grove. Pictures of Emily, the woman who was Oliver’s world until she wasn’t anymore, who has become a point of gravity in their new lives. Elio blows her a kiss as he passes, twirling around the post at the bottom of the bannister with an energy reminiscent of throwing himself around the old Italian villa. 

At the doorway to the kitchen, he stops and watches, leaning against the jamb and watching as Oliver licks his fingers clean of sugar and sliced peaches. The counter in front of him is dusted with flour, an echo of the slowly falling snow outside. Elio roll the sleeves of the sweatshirt over his fingers and presses them to his face, breathing in the scent of him even as Elio watches him, real and solid and tenderly cutting sheets of pastry over the tall kitchen island.

His long fingers roll and smooth, roll and smooth, the pastry sheet in his hands growing thinner and thinner until, in what still looks to me like magic after all these years, his large hands make delicate work of laying the flat sheet over the top of the three tins in front of him, pressing the edges until the edges lie flat and he is able to scoop up the extras into a messy pile on the counter. Elio licks his lips as Oliver crimps the edges of each tart, the dough ribboning like music, like the Beethoven melody he’s humming under his breath, the same orchestration Elio’s been working on for weeks. It brings a smile to his lips, a smile Oliver isn’t looking at but is still for him.

He continues humming as he scoops up all three tart tins in his grasp, balancing the last on his forearm as he slides them into the oven. He shuts it in time to the music and heads back to the counter, stuttering in his step and his tune as he finally sees Elio standing in the doorway. A smile fills his face, emotions in primary colors as he beckons Elio forward and he walks slowly across the tiled floor. It’s cold in every place he puts his feet down, until he reaches Oliver and puts his bare feet across the top of Oliver’s socked ones, standing with his weight back so he don’t crush him as Elio wraps his arms around Oliver’s broad chest and buries his face in the expanse of him.

‘I’ll never get used to having him here,’ he thinks, at the same time that Oliver speaks, his voice so low that Elio can feel it in the vibrations of his bones.

“I’ll never get used to this.”

Elio stretches the last few inches and places a kiss to the hollow of Oliver’s throat, soft and dry and chaste until he cracks his jaw just an inch and bites down playfully and Oliver squirms.

“Hey, now. None of that. We’ve got an hour until these tarts are done and we’re done at the professor’s house for brunch.”

All these years and he still calls Elio’s father ‘the professor’, fitting as Elio’s mother has never stopped calling him Il cowboy after all this time. Elio smiles and it’s a devilish smile, a holiday imp with dangerous plans as he meets Oliver’s eye.

“There’s a lot we can do with an hour.”

“And we do have extra peaches.”

Elio groans and presses his forehead against Oliver’s sternum. The joke is old by now, any sting long since worn away by time and affection. He laughs, his body shaking in Oliver’s arms, Oliver joining him until they both shake and rock in the silent rhythm of the universe.

“Oh, Oliver,” he says, his own name on his lips still sending chills up and down Elio’s spine. He shivers and Oliver squeezes him tighter. Oliver nuzzles his cheek against Elio’s hair and it’s only like this, pressed together in the silence of their winter morning apartment, that Elio is able to hear him. “I remember everything.”

Elio kisses him all the way to the bedroom, and beyond, because he remembers everything, too.


End file.
